Okay, this doesn't really qualify
as a gig. After all, it was just me-the band was back in Dallas throwing
darts at the life-size Neil cut-out that I stole from the set of Saving
Silverman. I had come to Nebraska to watch my Longhorns attempt
to do something that only one team had done in the last 74 games in
Lincoln-beat the Cornhuskers. Of course, that team was the Horns back
in 1998. We ended the nation's longest home winning streak that year,
and we were hoping to do it again.

I spent all day Friday flying,
as it is really tough to get a direct flight to Lincoln. Instead,
I flew to Denver and then into Omaha, where my sister Adrienne and
her fiancée Dano were waiting for me. Dano is a Husker and one helluva
good man (see my Who concert report for more info on the greatness
of Mr. Holmquist). I met Dano for the first time four years ago when
we played in Lincoln, and now we were all back again to enjoy another
weekend of great football and even greater alcohol consumption.

Back in college, Dano managed
a great bar in Lincoln called P.O. Pears. To this day, we find it
is impossible for Dano to pay for a drink in this place. And when
you are Dano's special guest from Texas, you don't pay for drinks
either. We spent almost all of our time at Pears four years ago, and
I knew we'd be doing it again. If you're ever in Lincoln (don't ask
me why you might be, but I suppose it's possible), be sure to stop
by Pears and grab a Jiffy Burger and a Boulevard Wheat beer. And be
sure to tell Bobby (the owner) that you know that freaky guy from
Texas whose team keeps kicking Nebraska's ass, and I bet your beer
is free. Or perhaps you might be escorted immediately from the premises-I'm
not sure which.

We arrived at Pears about 9:00
after checking into our five-star hotel (really) that only cost us
$50 a night. Have I mentioned that everyone in Lincoln loves Dano?
Walking through the streets of Lincoln with Dano reminded me of the
scene in Godfather II when Don Fanucci strolls through the
street festival and everyone is kissing his hand and giving him gifts.
(Perhaps my sister is joining a bigger "family" then she thought.)
Anyway, right after we came inside Pears, Adrienne got a strange look
on her face and said, "I think that's Darin Erstad."

Now for you non-baseball fans, Darin Erstad is the starting centerfielder
for the World Champion Anaheim Angels. He also used to punt for the
Huskers back in the mid-'90s in addition to being an All-American
baseball player. At first, we weren't 100 percent sure it was him-he's
not as big as you'd expect. But once we got a good look at him, we
knew we were in the company of someone who had just won sport's ultimate
prize. Amazingly, Erstad was sitting with a large man in Longhorn
gear that I immediately recognized as Brian Jones. Brian wore the
coveted Number 60 at UT back in the late '80s/early '90s and went
on to a long NFL career with the Saints, Raiders, and Colts. Currently,
Brian does on-the-field work for the Longhorn radio broadcasts in
addition to hosting a weekly Longhorn TV show. He can also drink like
a madman as you will soon discover!

I was a pretty big Angel fan
growing up, but I lost interest in them around the time I moved to
Texas. Still, I wanted them to kick some Giants ass during the World
Series and was thrilled when they won. Adrienne and Dano, who still
live in Southern California, had of course fallen under the spell
of the magical Rally Monkey. Dano's best friend Curt, who is also
a Husker but unfortunately couldn't make it back to Lincoln this time,
is also a huge Angels fan. Dano knew that Curt would be crushed that
he had missed meeting Erstad, so he decided to do the next best thing:
get Erstad to say "hi" to Curt on his cell phone. Now, how does one
go about approaching a superstar athlete with a request to call someone
he doesn't even know over 1500 miles away? Well, apparently all you
have to do is buy him a Bud Light, because Erstad was soon on the
phone chatting away with Curt back in Long Beach. I don't think Curt
really believed it was him, until my never-tell-a-lie sister convinced
him that he had indeed been speaking with one of baseball's best players.
And we have the pictures to prove it.

As for the previously mentioned
Mr. Jones, I am always happy to buy ex-Longhorns a drink when I get
the chance. I said hi to Brian and bought him his next round, and
what he was drinking certainly qualifies as a "drink." Three, if you
wanna get technical. Three shots of Tanquerray with just a splash
of some orange-colored (hook 'em, get it?) energy drink thrown in
for good measure. I saw Brian drink four of these in a matter of an
hour. He is a big man, but he is not that big. Things were
getting a bit wobbly for Mr. Jones, but I believed him when he insisted
we were going to kick some Cornhusker ass. And of course, he was right.

So what does all of this have
to do with Neil Diamond? Well nothing really, but it's a cool story
and it sets the tone for what happened later in the evening. After
a few drinks and some great food at Pears, we thought we might venture
out and check out some of Lincoln's other nightlife. I have heard
stories of a bar in Lincoln called the Sidetrack Tavern-most of the
time it's just a dive bar, but on football weekends, it becomes a
pretty happenin' place. The main attraction is a band that plays just
about every '70s song in the book, all in such excruciating fashion
that you can't help but sing along and enjoy it. I guess they've been
doing it for years and years, judging by the ages of the band members!
We grabbed a beer and were soon treated to truly horrific performances
of "When Will I Be Loved" and "Drift Away" (which used to be one of
my favorite '70s tunes until I heard their butchered version). I ran
into some Longhorn friends too-after all, there had to be 400+ people
in the place. I noticed that Dano seemed to have disappeared, and
a scary feeling came over me. I knew I was in for it. When Dano returned,
I asked him where he had been.

"Nowhere," he said.

But I knew better. And sure
enough, five minutes later the band was inviting "the guy from Texas
who can sing every Neil Diamond song" to the stage. I didn't even
try to argue because no one wants to look like a chicken-shit in front
of his little sister. As I tried to reach the stage, I had some difficulty;
after all, the stage was packed with gear, and there were hordes of
people surrounding it. When I finally saw what I thought was an opening
to reach the stage, I was virtually tackled by a large bald testosterone-fueled
thing that we will refer to as "Mr. Dickhead Bouncer."

"Where do you think you're
going?" asked Mr. Bouncer.

"They just asked me to come
up and sing," I happily replied.

"No they didn't," replied Señor
Dickhead.

"Ummmmmm.yeah, they did,"
I replied.

"Are you giving me attitude?"
he asked. I probably was, but he deserved it. The whole time this
was going on, the band kept asking where I was and if I wanted to
join them-only this brain-dead fat-ass was too clueless to figure
out what was going on.

"Look," I said. "They just
asked me to come up and sing. Ask them!"

At this point, the band noticed
the ruckus and asked if I was "Texas Neil Diamond Guy." When I said
yes, Mr. Dickhead finally let me onto the stage. The nice lady at
the keyboard (I think her name was Joyce) said, "Whaddya wanna sing,
shug?" ("shug" of course being short for "sugar").

"What do you know?" I asked.

"We know it all, shug."

After hearing their version
of "Drift Away," I knew that was a big fat lie. But oh well, when
in Rome.

"How about "Cracklin' Rosie"?"
I said.

"Great. What key's that in,
shug?"

Uh oh. Now there's a question
I can't answer. Let's just politely say that music theory is not my
strong point. Just play it and I'll sing it if I can, but I sure can't
tell you what key a song is in.

"I'm not sure," I said.

You could see the looks on
their faces-the looks said, "This is going to suck."

"Well sing me a verse, shug."
So I did, and she played a few notes.

"That's too low," said the
guitar player.

"THAT'S IT!" After all, if
it's low, it must be right for Neil.

So off we went. It was a bit
like that moment in High Fidelity where Jack Black gets up
on stage and everyone thinks he's going to suck, but then he croons
an awesome version of "Let's Get It On." People stared for about 20
seconds, and then they went crazy. Four hundred people were singing
along with me, and the band was beaming. I looked down and saw my
sister grinning ear-to-ear, and I was happy. Out in the crowd, a bunch
of my Longhorn friends (many of whom have never seen Diamondbag) rushed
to the front of the stage to join in. The song was over before I knew
it, and I was immediately mobbed by the friendly Nebraskans. People
were giving me tips, for crissakes! Everyone wanted me to get back
up for another tune, and I told them that I might later.

After making my way through
the crowd, I wound up back with Adrienne and Dano.

"You rocked the house," said
my drunken soon-to-be brother-in-law.

At that point, I felt a rough
hand on my shoulder and was whirled around. Low and behold, it was
Mr. Dickhead Bouncer.

"You've had too much to drink.
You're outta here."

Now you know me-I like my booze.
But I assure you that on this night, I was nowhere near drunk.

"What are you talking about?"
I asked. "I've had half a beer since I came in here."

"Doesn't matter. You're gone."

Apparently Billy Crystal is
right-you don't fuck with Mr. Zero. This guy was throwing me and my
party out of a bar, simply because his dumb ass didn't want to let
me on stage after I had been invited. I suppose the fact that the
place went crazy when I sang only pissed him off even more. So as
were being led to the door, Dano is letting him have it. Even my little
sister chimed in:

"You're an ASSHOLE."

I couldn't have said it better
myself. So here I was.kicked out of a bar at the age of 35 for the
first time in my life. And what did I get kicked out for? Fighting?
Nope. Lewd acts? Nope. Public indecency? Nope.

I got kicked out for (as Dano
put it) "doing the best goddamn Neil Diamond this town has ever seen."

Ladies and gentlemen, Neil
has left the building.

An hour later, Dano was still
fuming. He must have apologized over 100 times, stating that Mr. Dickhead
was an embarrassment to the entire state of Nebraska. I told him it
was fine and that it would make a good story (which if you're still
reading this, it must have). But Dano was irate. He didn't stop bitching
about it until he passed out back at the hotel. And even the next
morning, his first words were,"I can't believe you got kicked out of a bar for singing the best
goddamn Neil Diamond."

The next day, a lot of people
saw me on the street and said, "Great job, Texas Neil Diamond guy!"
Everywhere I went, people recognized me and said hello. But that's
Nebraska fans for you-damn, these people are nice. They buy you beers,
give you food, and compliment you on your team's play. Nebraska rocks.

By the way, I almost stopped
back at Sidetracks late Saturday night after the 27-24 Longhorn victory
to rub it in Mr. Dickhead Bouncer's face. But I think his steroid-shriveled
penis is probably enough punishment for him, don't you?